


How Fast The Night Changes

by just_another_outcast



Category: Waterloo Road (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anti-Davina Shackleton, Brett Aspinall Whump, Broken Bones, Canonical Past Statutory Rape, Child Abuse, Crying, Degradation, Father Figures, Gen, Hair-pulling, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, Humiliation, Hurt Brett Aspinall, Hurt/Comfort, POV Original Character, Platonic Cuddling, Strangulation, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, brief appearances made by Grantly Budgen and Jack Rimmer, diverges during 2x04 for the most part, not me, pre-Brett/Mika, pssssh, that cop definitely isn't based on Gil from Prodigal Son, the cop that saves Brett becomes his new dad, who would do that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29223681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_another_outcast/pseuds/just_another_outcast
Summary: Ever since his mum died, Brett has suffered more and more at the hands of his father. He's good at hiding the abuse, but as always, the truth comes out. A neighbor calling about a domestic disturbance is all it takes to make the right cop show up at the right time. Since Roger won't be the father he should, Constable George Aquino will take up the reins himself and become the father that Brett needs.
Relationships: Brett Aspinall & Mika Grainger, Brett Aspinall & Original Male Character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	How Fast The Night Changes

**Author's Note:**

> The Brett whump fic no one asked for. Brett whump didn't exist so I wrote it myself. And I gave him a new dad because Roger sucks.  
> Pay attention to the tags, my dudes.  
> I am American born and raised, and that is painfully obvious in this fic. I tried really hard to use British terms for everything and all that, but I'm sure I didn't do it very well. I apologize in advance for the inaccuracies and for any Brits I may be offending lol sorry about that.

It had been happening for years. Ever since his mum had died, really. Brett and his dad had never really gotten along, but his mum had always been there to be the peacekeeper between them. Once she was gone, and his dad had his string of women immediately following, things only got worse. Brett stopped trying to get along with him. How could he get along with the man who had betrayed his mum not even a week after she'd passed? No, Brett wanted to stay as far away from his dad as possible. For the most part, that seemed to be just fine with his dad too. The man ignored him for the most part, leaving Brett to fend for himself when it came to food and clothes and getting to and from school. But Brett could handle it. He was fifteen, and he could handle it.

Without his mum, and with his dad caring so little, Brett did whatever he damn well felt like. If that meant passing himself off as eighteen to get into a bar, who was to tell him he couldn't? If that meant sleeping with his dad's secretary behind his back, well why not? At least Davina had an interest in him. She saw him. She watched him, talked to him in that sultry voice and batted her eyes at him. Why shouldn't he have slept with her? He was mature enough to make his own decisions, and so could Davina. Maybe they would even get married. Brett had never been in love before, but he had to be in love with Davina. She was his first, so it had to be love. And she definitely loved him too. She never would've pulled him into bed with her that first time if she didn't love him. His mother had always told him that it was for love, so that had to be it.

But sometimes, Davina's attention wasn't enough. He would go days without seeing his dad sometimes, alone in that massive house, and Brett hated it. Even when he did see his dad, the man would just brush past him without so much as a word most of the time.

The first time Brett snapped at his dad, just a snide comment about nothing in particular, he got a face full of rage and a hand raised for a second, almost as if he'd been preparing to hit him. Brett couldn't help but smile. His dad would never hit him, but at least he'd gotten a response.

The second time he purposely provoked his dad, Brett found out that he'd been wrong. His dad would hit him. The first time, it was a slap across the face and a "don't you ever talk back to me again" said through clenched teeth. Brett had stood there, wide eyed, silent. His dad had hit him. He was fifteen and his dad had been ignoring him for the past two months and now his dad had hit him. His dad raised his hand again, and Brett flinched back.

"Yes, sir," he'd said. Brett wasn't sure he would keep to that, but he would say it if it kept him from getting hit again.

It didn't work for long.

His dad started drinking more, and when he drank, he got angry, and when he got angry, he liked to have someone to take it out on. That someone was always Brett. Brett tried to hide up in his room when his dad got like that, and that usually worked, but sometimes, his dad was just so drunk that he needed to hit something, and Brett was the only target around.

It was when his dad was drunk that he and Brett got into their first proper fight. It didn't last long, his dad having such a size advantage over him, but Brett had been able to get in a few good licks to defend himself as his dad hit him again and again. At school, Brett had to make up a story about getting mugged. His dad made sure to - almost - never hit him in the face, where the bruises would show so clearly.

Maybe Brett never should have provoked his father that one time in the first place. If he hadn't, then maybe the man would've stuck to ignoring him, instead of hitting him for every minor misstep. Being ignored was better than being terrified every moment he was at home.

Davina never said anything. She looked at him weird when she saw his bruises, but that didn't stop her from seeking him out and sleeping with him. At least she still loved him, although, she never said it. Brett did, and she didn't say it back, but that was okay. Brett knew she did. She had to.

One time, Brett had to take himself to the hospital. The cabbie looked at him weird, even a little concerned, but took him. Brett had to make up another story about getting mugged and not seeing his attackers, and it worked. He got pain meds for his broken ribs and wrist, and confirmation that there was no internal bleeding. His dad had been drunk again, had hit him so hard he fell to the floor, then kicked him, again and again and again. He stomped on Brett's wrist, eliciting a scream from his sobbing son, before finally leaving him alone for the night. When Brett got back home from the hospital, his wrist in a cast, his dad just laughed at him, and stole his pain meds. Brett knew better than to try to get them back. This time, at school, he claimed it was a car accident. No one questioned it.

It continued like this for the next two years. Brett was seventeen and he would do everything he could to avoid Roger - because how could he even refer to the man as his dad anymore - and sometimes it would work. Sometimes, he would go several days without getting hit, sometimes even a week or so. Other times, he would be lucky to only receive a slap across the face rather than the beatings that Roger dished out with more and more frequency. But even the beatings were better than when Roger would just look at him, drunk, a strange something in his eyes that set Brett on edge.

"You look so much like your mother," he would say sometimes. He would move towards Brett sluggishly, but those times, he was too drunk to do anything, too drunk to stand, much less beat him or anything else. Brett could easily get away, get up to his room and lock the door. When Roger was that drunk, he didn't have the dexterity to use his key to open it.

Despite what Brett told everyone, transferring to Waterloo Road had not been his idea. He would've loved to have been at a different school than his father, but Roger refused, saying that Brett was far too much trouble to be on his own at that school, that it was far better for him to transfer. This time, Brett tried to argue. He almost went to the hospital again. That was the first time that the cops were called to their house by their neighbors. There was no visible bruising, and Brett knew better than to say anything, so there was nothing the cops could do. Brett was lucky that the only thing Roger did to him after that was drag him upstairs by his hair and toss him in his room, locking the door behind him. Brett crawled into his bed, and cried himself to sleep.

But it only got worse. Brett put up a good front, laughing and smiling and trying to make friends and showing off like he was supposed to, trying to pretend that he wasn't terrified to go home. Besides, Davina was at school. When Roger had gotten the job, she'd transferred with him and become the new secretary. Brett got to see her every day, but she didn't seem nearly as happy about that as he was. Of course, he understood her concern from a professional standpoint, but love was love, right? So, why didn't she seem as in love with him as he was with her? Why did she flirt with Rimmer and act annoyed when he tried to show her how much he loved her?

Rimmer hated him, and Brett loved it. Rimmer hated him, but he didn't hit him. Brett got attention from a male authority figure that didn't end in pain and anguish, and he milked it. He did everything he could to piss the headmaster off, and it worked. Brett laughed every time, and fell into the easy routine that the other students seemed to expect from him. He would mouth off in class just a little bit, act every bit his over-educated self, and keep up the façade that he had it all together. Brett even managed to get some potential new friends to come over on the rare occasion that his dad was out for the night. Everyone thought that everything was fine.

Until they didn't.

All it took for Brett to finally stop acting like everything was okay was for his entire world to completely shatter once again. Roger had found out that Brett brought both Mika and Leigh-Ann home after school while he was away, and he wasn't happy about it.

"Two girls in the same afternoon, Brett? Your mother would be sorely disappointed if she found out what a slut her son is," Roger scoffed as he grabbed a beer from the fridge.

"It's not like that," Brett fired back. "We're just friends. Like you're one to talk anyway about being a man-whore," he said with a roll of his eyes. Brett started to make his way upstairs, away from him, but Roger's words had him stopping in his tracks. It was better to face his father than run away. That would only make the pain worse.

"What the hell did you just say to me?" Roger seethed. Brett turned around and puffed out his chest, standing as tall at his five feet and six inches would allow him to, consequences be damned.

"I said sex seems to be the only thing that's important to you. You dishonor Mum's memory with it. She would be ashamed of you," Brett said, in a rare instance of fighting back with his words. His bruises would be deeper and more painful, but sometimes, it was worth it, just to let Roger know that he hadn't broken his son, that Brett was still alive with a fire inside him that he hadn't yet succeeded in destroying.

The hit was expected, so Brett was able to catch himself instead of falling to the floor. The way that his father lunged for his neck and pinned him against the wall, however, wasn't so expected.

"What do you know about my business?" Roger asked, his eyes alight with rage.

"What?" Brett choked out. He instinctively pulled at his father's hands around his throat, but only succeeded in making Roger take one hand to catch Brett's thin wrists in his much larger hand, and pin them to the wall above his head. He'd never done that before. He'd never wrapped a hand around Brett's throat before or pinned him to the wall. Brett tried to stay calm, to take even breaths, but Roger was squeezing his throat just enough that it made breathing slightly difficult.

"I said, what do you flaming know about my business? How did you find out?" he repeated.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Brett insisted, and he was telling the truth. Roger was going mental and Brett was confused and terrified.

"I've provided for you with that business for your whole miserable life, you brat," Roger continued. "If you don't like that your money comes from running the porn industry, then maybe I'll just cut you off. You won't get another pound from me ever again."

Brett stayed silent, the implication of his father's words slowly sinking in. His whole business was a front. Everything Brett thought he knew was a lie.

"And if word of this gets out to anyone, I'll make sure you have the starring role in the next production. 'Twink schoolboy takes it up the arse for disobeying his daddy', I quite like the sound of that," Roger said. Brett kept quiet, his wide eyes filling with tears. "Oh, and they'll love it when you cry and beg and scream. So if you don't want a bunch of my friends to come and tear you in two, you better shape up. If you say one flaming thing, your arse is theirs, and I won't do one thing to help you. Do you understand me?" Brett nodded as the first tear fell. "Good," Roger growled, finally releasing Brett from the wall.

His legs shaking, Brett slowly moved along the wall, away from Roger. When his father did nothing to stop him, Brett dashed upstairs and into his room, locking the door behind him. That was sometimes a fruitless gesture, since it locked from both sides, and Roger did in fact have a key - Brett was sometimes allowed to keep his own. He collapsed onto his couch as the rest of his tears fell. Brett tried to take deep breaths, but soon collapsed into sobs, curling in on himself. How could his father say that? How could he not have known how Roger truly made his money? He missed his mum so much. She had always loved him and taken care of him, no matter what.

Everyone at school no longer thought that everything was fine.

After being dragged up from his couch by his father, Brett was faced with the reality that it hadn't just been a horrible nightmare. His father really did make his money off illegal porn, and he really had threatened to force his own son into it. Brett couldn't get it out of his mind. He flinched every time someone so much as brushed his shoulder, and kept his head down. As someone who was usually so enthusiastic every single day, that change didn't go unnoticed.

"What's wrong with you, Aspinall?" Mr. Budgen asked with a scoff after a particularly hard - although still accidental - shove had Brett spinning around in the hallway, eyes wide and breath coming in quick gasps. "What's got you acting like a scared little girl? Problems with your posh daddy?" He laughed, as did the students surrounding him, but the cruel teacher clearly wasn't expecting much of an answer.

Brett closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. He was fine. Nothing was going to happen to him at school. At school, he was safe. At school, he had Davina, despite her seeming annoyance with him. He had Mika too. She was his friend.

"Brett, are you okay?"

He opened his eyes as he released the breath he'd been holding in. Mika was standing in front of him, her blue eyes clearly displaying her concern. Brett glanced over as Davina walked by, without so much as a glance sent his way.

"I'm fine," Brett finally said. "Just didn't sleep well." That wasn't a lie. His dreams had been nightmares, and there was no rest to be found there.

"Are you sure?" Mika asked. Brett nodded, faking a smile that he knew didn't reach his eyes. "Well, if you need anything, I'm here." She smiled, and Brett's smile turned a little more real. He hadn't had a friend like Mika in a very long time.

Mika merged back in with the rest of the students in the hall, on the way to her class. Brett took another deep breath, and went the opposite way. His father didn't get to treat him so terribly that his flaming teachers noticed a difference without expecting something in return. He left the populated hallways, towards the lobby, where the stupid model school sat in its glass case. Brett didn't care how severe the consequences were going to be. If Brett was going to be humiliated at school, then so was Roger. If there was one way that Brett could fight back, he was going to do it.

It didn't take much to smash the glass and the model to bits, getting Mr. Rimmer's attention in the process. Brett kept his aloof attitude as he was scolded by Mr. Rimmer and Mr. Treneman and Miss Campbell. He didn't care. They couldn't do anything to him that would even come close to what his father would. They at least had the decency to offer their condolences when Brett told them about his dead mum. For a moment, for the briefest moment, Brett contemplated telling them everything. He quickly thought better of it.

He almost told Davina, when she finally talked to him, but she didn't seem too concerned about him in the first place. All she wanted was for their relationship to continue under her control, and her control alone. Really, that wasn't much of a change at all. Davina had always been the one in control. They only ever did exactly what Davina wanted, exactly when she wanted to do it. That had always been pretty clear to Brett.

Most of the rest of the school day continued normally. Brett went from class to class, focusing on acting normal. He was safe at school. Nothing could happen to him there.

At least, that's what Brett thought. That changed when his father came storming into his classroom like a man on fire, screaming at him to get up.

He was in Budgen's class, reading some book written a long time ago with a plot so boring it was all Brett could to even stay awake, when his dad burst into the room.

"Where's my son?" he asked Budgen, his voice thick with barely controlled rage. Brett looked up, eyes going wide. Roger wouldn't do anything at school, not there, where everyone would see, where police would have to be involved and there would be too many witnesses to deny it all. His father turned and saw him, eyes blazing with anger. "Pack your stuff up," he ordered.

"Excuse me?" Budgen interjected, beginning to stand. Brett stayed right where he was, frozen with growing fear.

"He's leaving this school," Roger declared with the authority of someone who could make it happen. He walked up to Brett with a purpose, his eyes lighting up even more when Brett reflexively flinched back and away. "Get your stuff, now," he ordered again.

"No way," Brett fired back. He wasn't leaving. School was where he was safe. As long as he was at Waterloo Road, a school funded by his father, the man couldn't hurt him there. That would be too risky for his reputation no matter how he actually made his money.

"Get out of my class before I call the police," Budgen ordered Roger. As cruel as Budgen could be, he did not take kindly to his class being interrupted by anyone, no matter who they were. In time, Budgen was sure to mock Brett for the whole ordeal, but in the moment, Brett would be glad to have his defense, however brief it would be.

"You don't tell me what to do," Roger shot back with a quick glance over his shoulder at the teacher. He turned his attention quickly back to Brett, who was doing everything he could to stay calm. He couldn't give anyone any more fuel to use against him. "On your feet, now!" Roger shouted at him, shoving Brett with a forceful push against his arm.

"Leave me alone, will ya?" Brett's eyes were wide with fear, but he hoped it looked more like confusion. What was Roger doing? They were at school, not at home. Roger couldn't do this at school. He was supposed to be safe at school. He tried to remind Roger with his eyes of where they were, of how many people were watching, but Roger didn't seem to care anymore.

"You," Budgen said, pointing at another student. "Go get Mr. Rimmer." Brett hunched over his desk a bit more, using it as a bit of protection from his dad's fists, which he was starting to think might come flying at him anyway, despite their location. Roger began shoving Brett's things into a bag, and all Brett could do was sit there, waiting for the pain.

"Do you want me to wrestle you out?" Roger asked him, but Brett knew a threat when he heard one.

"You're off your head," Brett said, still looking away from his father, straight at his desk.

"For the last time, will you leave my classroom?" Budgen asked Roger with faux politeness. Brett knew it wouldn't have an effect on him.

Roger muttered something under his breath, then grabbed onto Brett's chair and pulled it out from under him. Brett got to his feet and took a quick step away, flinching back from his father as the man held the chair aloft and prepared to strike him with it. It wouldn't be the first time that Roger had used something other than his fists to hit Brett with, and it likely wouldn't be the last. Everyone around them was shouting and exclaiming, but all Brett could see was the rage in his father's eyes, and the intent to rip him a new one right there in the middle of the classroom.

"Alright, everybody out for your safety," Budgen said, but it sounded more like was just inconvenienced by the ordeal than actually concerned for his students.

"What are you doing?" Brett finally asked Roger. He'd never done more to him at school than give him a shove. This was so much further than a shove. He took another step back, and fought the urge to lift his hands to defend himself. He couldn't let the other kids know that he was used to this, that he actually believed he was in danger from his own father. They couldn't know. No one could know - especially not Mika, who was staring at Roger with a rage that matched how Roger looked at Brett.

"Mr. Aspinall has lost control of his senses," Budgen said as he ushered the other students out of the classroom.

"Why are you such a bully?" Mika yelled at Roger, standing tall and strong, as if she were about to put herself between Brett and his father. "He's told you he doesn't want to leave." Brett looked between Mika and Roger, biting his lip to keep his own tears at bay. How could his father be doing this in school? He was supposed to be safe there. Was there no where that he could be safe anymore?

"I'm his father and he does what I tell him," Roger shot back, still holding onto the chair. Brett remained silent, knowing better than to dispute his father's words. When he got home, Roger would likely make good on his threat towards Brett the night before. He stood there, mouth falling open in shock and fear. What was he supposed to do?

"What the bloody hell is goin' on?" Mr. Rimmer asked the moment he stepped into the room. Most of the other students had filed out, leaving only Brett, Mika, Roger, and Mr. Budgen in the room.

"Would you please remove this bully from my classroom, Mr. Rimmer?"

"I'm here to remove my son," Roger said in a tone that, with Brett, would leave no room for debate.

"For heaven's sake, Roger," Rimmer said with a scoff, stepping closer to them. Slowly, Mika started heading for the door, but she kept her eyes trained on Brett. He couldn't look at her, not after what she'd just seen.

"I warned you, Rimmer," Roger practically growled, but he finally began to put the chair down. Brett stayed where he was, too afraid to even move.

"I suggest we go to my office, I've got some other issues to raise with you," Rimmer said. He kept his voice calm, and he barely spared Brett a glance. "You're makin' a fool of yourself."

"He's lost it," Brett finally added, taking another small step back to hide the way that he was shaking. Roger stared at him, as if daring him to say one more word. Brett stood his ground and held his head high, although he bit his lip again to keep it from trembling.

"Mr. Aspinall," Rimmer said, gesturing towards the door. Roger glared at Brett once more, then walked towards the door, with Rimmer on his heels.

Brett let out a breath that he hadn't even remembered holding in. He stared out the door in disbelief. How had that happened? What was everyone going to think? Instances like that didn't happen often, and they were never the first time. For something so public to happen, there were always private instances first. Not everyone would put that together, but many students and teachers would. Mika would. She was smart enough to figure out that if Roger was hitting Brett at school, then he was definitely hitting Brett at home.

He tried to take a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling in an attempt to control his emotions. He was alone in the classroom, but he couldn't stay in there forever. He needed to face Budgen and his classmates, no matter how hard that was going to be.

Slowly, Brett made his way out of the classroom. The other students were a bit down the hall, lining it. Each and every one of them stared at him as he walked out, whispering to each other and giggling. Brett averted his gaze, looking down at the floor.

"Alright, everyone, settle down. Let's get back to work," Budgen said, beginning to usher the students back into the class. Brett ducked back in, head still down. He sat back down at his desk, sitting in the very seat that his father had been about to assault him with, staring at the desk instead of the other students or his teacher, but he glanced to the side when the chair next to him squeaked in movement.

"Are you alright?" Mika quietly asked him for the second time that day, her voice calming and gentle. Brett couldn't help but look over at her, her blue eyes staring into his own.

He forced a smile and nodded. "I'm fine," he said, before turning back to the front of the classroom, but still not looking at Budgen.

"Let's get back to our lessons, now," Budgen said. "I'm sure you all have burning questions to ask young Brett, and I am sure they are all invasive and inappropriate, and I am sure that you will have time to ask them all later. But right now, we are going to continue with our schoolwork. You can harass him later." Budgen grinned and shook his head, but Brett remained silent. He could feel his face heating up in embarrassment once again.

"You know I'm here for you, right?" Mika asked him. She rested her hand on his arm, and ducked her head slightly to catch his gaze. "If you need anything, really, anything at all, I'll be there. I'll help you. I'll do whatever you need, my whole family will."

Brett forced a smile and nodded once again, albeit shakily. He blinked back tears. Mika knew. She definitely knew. She was practically telling him that he had a place to crash at her house if he needed it, if he couldn't go home.

Brett almost took her up on that. Maybe he should have. He texted Davina, hoping and praying that he would be able to see her, that the woman he loved would help him, but she didn't text him back. That was normal, her ignoring his messages, but Brett couldn't help but be disappointed once again. She had said that she wanted to be with him, so why didn't she act like it? Why didn't she act like she cared about him at all, especially considering what she knew happened that day? Davina was the school secretary, sitting right outside the headmaster's office all day. Rimmer had said that he wanted to talk to Roger in his office, so Davina would have a front seat to their whole conversation. Knowing Roger, Brett knew that that conversation would involve a fair amount of shouting. Davina would know everything. So why was she still ignoring him?

His messages to Davina going ignored, Brett steeled himself, and went home. Maybe he would get lucky, and he would be able to lock the door to his bedroom and be left alone. He would be home before Roger at the very least, so he would have time to himself before anything happened anyway. Or maybe it would've been better for him to bite the bullet and ask to stay at Mika's. But no, he couldn't. Mika's family was going through so much, he couldn't burden them with him and his problems too. That wouldn't be fair to them.

The last time Brett felt such extreme anxiety was when his mum was in the hospital. The pit in his stomach felt more like a void, slowly growing like a black hole, trying to consume him. His father could be back any minute, and a locked door wouldn't necessarily stop him. Roger had a key. If he wanted to get into Brett's room, he could and would.

Brett took a shot of vodka in an attempt to calm himself, but it did nothing. He relished the burn as it slid down his throat, but it wasn't enough. He considered taking a few more shots, but if he were drunk, he wouldn't be able to defend himself at all. If Roger really was going to make good on his threats to have Brett violated by his criminal friends, then the easiest time to do it would be when Brett was drunk and unable to fight back. No, Brett couldn't let that happen. He needed to be constantly on guard, ready to fight. If Roger's friends were determined enough, they would be able to do whatever they wanted to him anyway, but that didn't mean that Brett was going to make it easy for them. He would fight and claw and scream if he had to.

But Roger wouldn't really do that to him. He wouldn't. Brett was his son, Roger wouldn't do that. Roger still loved him, deep down. Yes, his father hit him and beat him, but he still loved him. He always kept the fridge stocked and let Brett drink as much as he wanted and showered him with money. Roger still loved him. He would never follow through on his threat to pimp him out, he couldn't.

And yet, believing his father couldn't do something that terrible to him didn't stop the fear from coursing through his veins, making his hands shake and his heart race. Brett was so scared. There was no way that he was going to get through the night without getting a beating. He'd smashed his father's model of the school, on purpose, with malicious intent. What had he been thinking? Why on earth had he thought it would be worth it to humiliate his father like the man humiliated him? If the altercation in his classroom was any indication, it definitely wasn't going to be worth it, no matter how wonderful it had felt at the time to finally have something under his own control, something that he chose to do to get back at Roger.

Brett spent the next hour shaking, staring at the wall. He briefly considered running away, but where would he go? He had no family but Roger, and none of his friends from his old school had bothered to keep in contact with him once he transferred to Waterloo. He didn't have anyone. There was nowhere he could go. No matter how many times he texted her, Davina wouldn't respond. She wouldn't pick up his calls. He left messages, telling her that he was scared, but she didn't get back to him. What was he supposed to do?

The sound of the front door slamming shut had Brett shuddering and holding back sudden tears. He'd never been more scared than he was when he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Brett stood on shaking legs and backed away from the door, as far away from it as he could, until his back was pressed against the wall.

"Brett!" came the shout from the other side of the door. Brett flinched back and squeezed his eyes shut. Roger began to bang on the door. "Come out here right now. Don't make me come in," he growled. The first tear slipped down Brett's face. "Brett Aspinall, I am your father. Get out here, right now," he repeated.

Slowly, his legs barely supporting his weight in his terror, Brett moved towards the door. It would be better if he just faced Roger, if he did what his father said, instead of fighting back. It was so hard to resist the urge to fight back, but it was always worse when he put up a fight. Brett took a deep breath, trying to control his emotions. Roger hit him harder when he cried, saying that he was weak and he needed to get used to the pain.

Just as Brett put his shaking hand on the doorknob, ready to unlock it and face the music, the door came flying towards him, striking him across the side of his forehead and sending him back a step with a cry of pain. Roger had broken down the door, he hadn't even unlocked it with his own key. Brett put his hand up to the bleeding gash on his head as Roger stalked towards him, backing him up against the wall once again.

"You idiot!" Roger screamed at him, his eyes ablaze with fury. "How could I have someone so flaming stupid as a son?" He shoved Brett harder against the wall. His breath already smelled like alcohol.

"Dad, I'm sorry," Brett said, trying to hold back his tears. He could feel blood dripping down his face from the gash.

"Oh, you're gonna be sorry," Roger growled. He grabbed Brett by his hair and pulled him away from the wall, shoving him towards the door. "Get your arse downstairs. Now," he commanded with another shove. Brett stopped and tried to turn around.

"What-."

"Now!" Roger shouted at him, shoving him again for good measure. Legs shaking, Brett got downstairs as quickly as he could, hoping that he would make it down fast enough to avoid being thrown down the stairs by his father. He kept himself a few feet away from the man, getting into the kitchen, his hands held up in a defensive gesture.

"Dad, please-."

"Shut up!" Roger screamed. "You have done quite enough. I have a lot of friends in very low places. Do you really want me to call them over and hand you over to them for the night? For the week? For the rest of your miserable flaming life?" He pushed Brett again, shoving him up against the table and forcing him to lean backwards over it. "I could get rid of you tonight and nobody would know. Nobody would care! Just another teenage runaway, they'll say."

"But Davina," Brett said before he could stop himself. "She'd care, she'd ask questions."

Roger stepped back, the question clear in his eyes. His quizzical expression quickly turned into a smirk, but the fury in his eyes betrayed him.

"You let her bang you, didn't you?" he asked, but he didn't give Brett time to answer before he barked out a scoff. "Of course you did, you little slut."

"No, she loves me, Davina loves me," Brett insisted, taking advantage of the few steps away that his father had taken to get more distance between them.

Roger scoffed again. "Loves you? Davina doesn't even like you! She's just as slutty as you, willing to bang anyone that opens his legs for her. She likes using you and that's it. How could anyone ever actually like a worthless brat like you?" Roger asked with a roll of his eyes.

"That's not true," Brett said as the first tear rolled down his face. "Mika, she-."

"Oh, you're sleeping with her, too?"

"No! She's just my friend," Brett insisted. Another tear escaped. Mika was his best friend. She cared about him, he knew it. His father was wrong. Mika cared about him.

"Stop your cryin', you miserable brat," Roger seethed. He grabbed a plate from the counter and chucked it at Brett.

Brett raised his arms up to protect his face, but cried out in pain when the plate shattered against his bare forearms, tearing through the skin and creating long gashes in its wake. Blood immediately started pouring from the gashes, traveling down his arms and making little puddles on the wood floor. Roger was gonna kill him. It was hard to get blood out of wood, and now Brett was bleeding all over it.

Roger stalked over to him, grabbing him above his gashes and dragging him out of the kitchen. "You're nothing but a slut, so tonight, you're gonna be my friends' whore," he said. "You asked for it, and now you're gonna get it rough, just like a little slut like you deserves. At least you can make me some money this way."

"No, Dad, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Brett rushed out. Roger couldn't be serious. He couldn't actually do that to his own son, he just couldn't.

"Save your beggin' for the cameras," Roger growled. "Not that it'll do you any good." He let out a low chuckle.

"You can't do this," Brett said through his tears. "You can't, I won't let you." He stared up at his father with as much strength as he could muster. He wasn't sure how he was going to fight back against Roger and his friends when he was so much smaller than them, but he would be damned if he wasn't going to try. He would never stop fighting. This couldn't go on, it just couldn't. Brett had to do something about it, even if it killed him. He would've rather been dead than be forced into prostitution by his father.

Roger grabbed him by the neck and shoved him up against the wall. "You can't do anything about it," he said. "I am your father, and you will do what I tell you. I own you, boy." He kept a firm grip on Brett's throat with one hand, while the other held Brett's blood soaked wrists above his head, Roger's large hands encircling his thin wrists with ease. The grip on his throat was crushing, cutting off his airways instantly. Brett gagged and choked and his legs flailed, but to no avail. He strained against the grip on his wrists, but even with his own blood coating them, he couldn't slip them free. His eyes were trapped wide open, staring into his father's crazed gaze, forced to see the hatred and rage that fueled them. Why did they have to be the last things that Brett saw? Why did Roger have to hate him so much? Why was his father killing him?

Slowly, as Roger continued to put so much force onto his throat, Brett's struggles got weaker and weaker. He couldn't breathe, his chest burned and bucked with the need for oxygen that he wasn't getting. His whole body spasmed against his father, but the man held him tight against the wall, keeping him from breathing. As the darkness began to take over his vision, Roger finally released him.

Brett fell to the ground on his hands and knees immediately, clutching at his throat as he gagged, air flowing back into his lungs. Breathing hurt just as much as being strangled did. Tears were streaming down his face in rivers, but Brett couldn't make a move to stop them. All he could do was breathe. His father hadn't killed him. He was still alive. Blood still poured from the gashes on his arms and head, but he was still alive. Lightheaded, but alive.

"Better get used to being choked, boy," Roger growled. "It'll be happening a lot in your future as a whore."

Brett didn't have time to fully take in his father's meaning before something slammed into his ribs, knocking him to his side on the ground with a cry of pain. He didn't have time to curl in on himself before his father's boot was slamming into him again, and again, and again.

"Stop!" Brett tried to shout out, but he could barely get anything past his cries. Roger had never gone this far before. It had never been this bad, this painful, even when bones had broken. Another kick slammed into him. Brett let out a choked off scream as he felt at least one of his ribs break.

Roger finally stepped back for a moment, giving Brett enough time to pull his knees up to protect himself, just a bit. It was too painful to move anything else. His arms laid out in front of him, blood getting all over the fine carpet.

"You don't get to destroy a symbol of my success without expecting something in return," Roger seethed. Brett kept his eyes shut tight against his tears and his pain, keeping himself from seeing his father's rage - and his intent.

The sudden pain in his wrist overshadowed the pain everywhere else. Brett screamed, louder than he ever remembered screaming before, drowning out the sound of the bones in his wrist shattering under his father's boot. Roger dug his foot in, and Brett howled, his entire being zeroed in on the fire that radiated from his wrist. He screamed until his throat gave out, leaving broken sobs in its wake.

"I'm sorry," he forced out, the words scraping his throat like sandpaper. "I'm so- sorry," he sobbed. He would say anything to make Roger stop, to make him just leave him alone - to make Roger love him again.

"You're a worthless whore, Brett," Roger growled. "The least you could do is make yourself useful and make me some money." He kicked Brett again, eliciting another choked off sob. "I expect this mess to be cleaned up within the hour, unless you want to lose the use of a leg too."

Brett barely registered the sound of Roger's retreating footsteps over the intensity of the pain he was in. He was too scared to even try to flex his fingers, much less get up and begin to clean his own blood out of the carpet and the wood floor in the kitchen. Maybe it would be better to just let Roger do whatever he wanted, and wish for death. Death would certainly be better than continuing to live in that house.

The clinking of glasses in the kitchen continued. Roger was getting himself more to drink. He didn't need any more. Brett had smelled the alcohol on him from when he first shoved Brett up against the wall. But he wasn't about to tell his father that. Brett wasn't about to do much of anything but lie there and hope the pain would abate enough to move. He had to move. He knew Roger wasn't exaggerating when he said he'd break Brett's leg, and Brett probably didn't have much time before Roger came in to do just that. Roger had said he wanted the floors cleaned within the hour, so he was probably expecting his friends to be over in that time.

Brett had to get away. He had to run away. He couldn't stay there and let himself be raped while his father filmed it and sold it on the dark web. He had to get somewhere safe. Maybe he would go to Mika after all. There was so much going on in her life, but Brett needed help, and he didn't know if anyone else would help him. If he went to the hospital, they'd call his dad, just like they had the first time. Roger hadn't shown up, of course, but Brett didn't want to risk it again. This was the second time his father had broken his ribs and his wrist. This time, he could need surgery to repair the damage. But he needed to get somewhere where Roger couldn't find him.

As slowly as he could, Brett got himself sitting up. Fresh tears were streaming down his face as the movement pulled at his broken ribs and the change in elevation made his wrist throb. He couldn't hold back his whimpers of pain.

"Shut up, Brett!" Roger shouted from the kitchen, making him flinch. Brett bit his lip to keep himself from crying out again. His whole being was trembling in pain and fear, and it only made him hurt more, but he couldn't stop shaking, and he couldn't stop crying. He wanted his mum. He missed her so much.

Brett bit his lip even harder to keep himself quiet, tasting blood as he did so. He glanced down at the floor and saw the carpet he was supposed to clean, stained with his blood. The gashes on his arms were still bleeding, but less so. The cut on his head seemed to have clotted. He held his wrist close to his chest, above his heart in an effort to lessen the throbbing. He needed to stand up. He needed to get out of the house, to get away. There wasn't time to get upstairs and grab anything, not even his phone. He needed to be gone by the time Roger's friends got there.

The sudden ringing of the doorbell, combined with three heavy knocks at the door, stole Brett's attention and made his heart stop. He was too late. He wasn't going to be able to get away. Roger was going to break his leg for not cleaning the floor fast enough and then he was going to be-.

"Police! Open up!" came the call from outside the front door.

Brett's breath caught in his throat. The police? How did they know? Roger was going to kill him, he was dead, it was over, he was dead.

A hand slammed over his mouth and another wrapped around his chest, trapping his broken wrist there. Brett screamed into the hand gagging him as the broken bones shifted yet again. It was all he could do to focus on not passing out as Roger dragged him across the room and into the hall closet, tossing him to the floor.

"You say a single flaming word and I will kill you," Roger growled. "I swear, I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

Brett nodded as tears continued to stream down his face. He held his wrist close to him and curled up as much as his broken ribs would allow him too. The door closed in front of him, locking with a loud click, leaving Brett alone in the darkness. Maybe it would be better if he just screamed and made Roger finally do it, finally kill him. If he was only ever going to live in fear, then he didn't want to live anymore at all. He rested his head against his knees, and let quiet sobs wrack his body.

...

Calls of domestic disturbances were always the worst. It was rare that the victim was willing to press charges, even if they were the one who called the police in the first place. At least this call was from a neighbor. Their records showed previous calls about domestics had been made to that address, but no charges had been filed. Constable George Aquino didn't think that this time would be any different. Things rarely changed.

Still, he pulled his squad car up to the ornate home and walked up to the front door. He couldn't hear anything from the inside. George rang the doorbell and gave the door three solid knocks.

"Police! Open up!" he shouted after waiting for a moment and getting no response. There weren't any windows by the door, so he couldn't see inside at all. After another moment, George rapped on the door a few more times.

The door opened a moment later, revealing a man in his late forties with slightly bloodshot eyes. The moment he opened his mouth, George could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Can I help you?" he asked, but the annoyance in his expression clearly displayed how much he absolutely did not want to help George.

"Roger Aspinall?" he confirmed. It was always best to be sure the house was the correct one.

"Yes, that's me," the man replied, but there was a hesitation in his voice, almost as if he were afraid of what the consequences for being Roger Aspinall were going to be.

"We've received calls of a domestic disturbance at this address," George explained. "Mind if I come inside and talk to your family? Make sure everything's alright?"

"There's no one else here," Roger immediately responded, his eyes narrowing in what was definitely anger and not confusion.

"Then you wouldn't mind me steppin' in and havin' a look about?" he asked again. George wasn't going to leave without checking things out, even if it wasn't likely to end in an arrest. Roger stared at him for a moment, the two of them silently facing off. Finally, Roger gave a terse nod, and opened the door enough to let George in.

George stepped inside, but quickly noticed that Roger wasn't about to just let him roam around the house. He stayed right in front of George, blocking his view.

"Would you mind steppin' aside, sir?" he asked in a voice that he was sure let the man know that he would not ask again. "A neighbor called hearin' screamin' comin' from your house. I have to make sure everything's alright."

"That was just the telly," Roger rushed out. He made no move to get out of George's way.

"Loud enough that your neighbors heard it and got scared that someone was bein' hurt?" He cringed at Roger's lie. George had been a cop long enough to hear the same excuses time and time again, 'it was just the telly' being a very popular one. "Look, if there's really nothin' goin' on, then you have no reason to be concerned about me havin' a look around. The sooner I can look around, the sooner I can be out of your hair."

After another brief staring contest, Roger gave another terse nod, and stepped back ever so slightly.

"Who else lives here?" George asked, taking a step towards Roger. The man took a step back.

"Just my son."

"And where is he?"

Roger stood there for a moment before answering, "out with his mates."

"Which mates?" George immediately ask. He was getting a sinking feeling in his stomach. This wasn't going anywhere good.

"How should I know?" Roger replied with a scoff, rolling his eyes and shaking his head for good measure.

"You don't know your son's mates? You don't know where he is or what he's doing?" George confirmed.

Roger stared at him with hate in his eyes, no longer keeping up a façade. "How I parent my son is my business and mine alone," he said. "I think you should leave now."

"Not quite," George replied dismissively. He forced himself past Roger and into the living room, and finally saw what Roger had desperately not wanted him to see: a blood trail. There was a little pool of blood in the living room, leading back into the kitchen, where there was another, larger pool, and leading the other way as well with a few tiny droplets. It wasn't enough blood for anyone to be in grave danger, but definitely enough that someone needed to go to the hospital. "You mind tellin' me what happened here?" he asked. Instead of going towards the larger pool of blood, George followed the tiny droplets leading off towards a closet.

"It was just an accident, everything's fine," Roger rushed out, taking a step towards him. George held up his hand to warn him from getting closer. Roger stayed quiet, but he was worrying his bottom lip and staring at the closet in anxiety.

George held his breath, and listened. From the closet, he could hear it: quiet, oh so quiet sobs and whimpers. His heart in his stomach, George turned the knob. It was locked, but he heard a gasp from inside the closet, followed by more crying.

"I'm only gonna tell you this one time. Unlock the flaming door, right now," George ordered. For a moment, Roger just stared at him. George flipped his radio on. "This is Constable Aquino, requesting additional units at my location. Bring an ambulance too." He turned back to Roger, then looked pointedly at the door. "This is gonna go a lot easier for you both if you just do as I say," he reminded him. He didn't see a way out of Roger getting arrested, if his suspicion that it was his son inside that closet was right, but it would be much easier if Roger didn't resist.

"He's my son, and I'll discipline him how I choose," Roger practically growled.

"Not when you're breakin' the law you won't. Now unlock this door, or I will break it down, and add obstruction of justice to your list of charges," he said. "No matter what you do, this door is comin' down, and you will be arrested. How much trouble you're in is up to you."

Slowly, Roger reached into his pocket, and withdrew a key. George stepped aside just enough to let Roger unlock the door, but he stopped the man from opening it.

"Step aside, and don't move," he ordered. Grumbling under his breath, Roger complied. George gently pulled the door open, and his heart fell all the way to his feet. Out of all his years on the force, he had never seen a sight quite like the one that greeted him.

Inside the closet was a crying teenage boy, curled up against the wall. Blood coated his arms from the gashes littering them, and streaked down the side of his face from a cut near his temple. One wrist was already visibly swollen. When the boy looked up at George, tears streaming down his face, George could see angry red marks on his neck, which spoke of being strangled.

"You're alright now," he said to the boy, his voice low and gentle. George blinked back tears that threatened to fill his own eyes at the sight of the boy. "It's over, you're safe."

The boy shook his head as more tears fell down his face. "No, I'm not. I'm not safe anywhere anymore."

"Oh, quit your whinin', Brett, you're fine," Roger scoffed, staggering to the side. The alcohol that he had clearly been ingesting affecting him more and more with each passing minute.

"Stop talkin'," George ordered him with a glare before turning back to the boy. He softened his gaze and lowered his voice once again, so quiet that Roger would have to strain to hear him. "Brett, right?" he asked the kid. The boy nodded. "I'm George. Your dad can't hurt you anymore. I'm gonna take care of you. I'm gonna protect you, I promise. An ambulance is on its way, and your father is going to jail. I'm not gonna let him ever hurt you again."

Brett looked up at him, his stunning blue eyes shining with tears, as if he couldn't believe the words that George was saying, as if it were impossible to ever be safe. Roger really did a number on the kid.

"Do you wanna come out of there?" he asked him. Brett nodded, but then shook his head as more tears fell.

"I can't- I can't move- it- it hurts," he stuttered, letting his head fall back onto his knees as he continued to sob.

"Grow up, you brat," Roger groaned.

George swiftly stood, turned, and grabbed Roger by his collar, slamming him up against the wall. "I thought I told you to stop talking," he growled, getting deep into Roger's personal space, but the drunk man didn't seem to care.

"He's my son and I'll say to him what I want," Roger replied, his breath making George cringe.

"He's not gonna be your son much longer. You'll lose custody for what you've done," George said. Maybe Roger was too drunk to understand that, but it was the truth. After the trial - and there would be a lengthy one if Roger didn't plead guilty - he would never see his son again.

"Good," Roger said with a dark smile. "He could stand to be on his own for once. I'm sure the little slut will just whore himself out for the money. I've already got men lining up for his arse. That won't change no matter where I am."

George pulled Roger back just to shove him against the wall harder. "Shut your flaming mouth!" he shouted.

"Constable Aquino!" a voice called from the front door. George glanced over as saw his sergeant, as well as a few other constables. He could hear the sirens of the ambulance approaching not far behind. He pulled Roger away from the wall and shoved him towards the front door.

"You're under arrest," he said to Roger, his voice thick with barely controlled rage. The other constables quickly took hold of Roger, who was beginning to struggle.

"This isn't over, Brett!" he shouted. "You're still my son! I still own you!" The constables dragged him outside, where his shouting was muffled by the sirens.

"Get me medics for the boy," George said, then turned his full attention back to Brett, who was shaking so hard it looked like he was going to fall apart. He knelt down in front of him, and forced his expression to soften once again. "Hey," he gently called out. Slowly, Brett lifted his head back up and made eye contact. "He's gone, taken away. He can't hurt you anymore, I promise." Brett nodded, and let out a shaky breath. He made no move to get out of the closet. "Is there anyone I can call for you? Your mother, or other family?"

Brett shook his head. "There's no one," he said. "Mum's been dead for years. Dad was right, Davina doesn't care, and I was so flaming stupid to think she did. I don't have anyone." His head fell back to his knees, likely in an effort to hide his tears.

"That's not true," George gently replied. "You have me. I care. I'm not about to let anyone hurt you again." Medics came up next to him. "I know this is hard, but can you tell me what your father did? Why it hurts so much to move?"

After a moment, Brett lifted his head and nodded again. He took a deep breath before he spoke, cringing as he did.

"He broke my wrist and ribs again," he said. George tried not to let his fury at the inclusion of the word 'again' show on his face. "And he, uh, he threw a plate at me, and it- it cut my arms. He slammed me around, and he- he held me against the wall, with his hands a- around my throat." Brett closed his eyes as more tears escaped. "I'm s-sorry, I can't- can't st-stop crying," he sobbed.

"Hey, it's alright," George insisted. "You've been through quite a lot. But it's over now. We're gonna take you to the hospital. You're gonna be just fine." Gently, he rested his hand on Brett's knee, and gave it a light squeeze. "I promise." Brett looked back up at him, and nodded, not breaking eye contact. "How about we get you out of there now? The medics are gonna give you something for the pain, too." At least, he assumed they would. Now that he'd said it, they had to. There was no way that George was going to let Brett be put through any more pain when there was an option to lessen it first.

At Brett's nod, George stood up and took a step back to give the medics the room they needed to work.

"Please, don't," Brett said, staring up at George.

"Don't what?" he asked.

Brett closed his eyes and looked away. "Please don't leave," he said in a broken whisper. George didn't know it was possible for his heart to break any more, but somehow, it did.

"I'm right here," he replied. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise." Brett visibly relaxed, and didn't protest when the medics started to do their jobs. George stayed within Brett's sightline while the medics started his IV for pain meds. It didn't long for them to take effect. Brett's eyes began to flutter as he struggled to stay awake. "You can sleep now, it's okay," George insisted. It was the medics' job to tell the kid that, but George just wanted to take his pain away.

Brett nodded, but he didn't completely close his eyes. The medics began to move him out of the closet, resulting in only a low whine coming from the boy instead of the loud cry of pain that George was sure he would've released without the pain meds. Still, the medics dutifully got him out of the small closet and onto the waiting stretcher.

"Aquino!" his sergeant called out. George looked over at the man and stepped to the side, close enough to him that he could give his sergeant his attention, but not so far that Brett would think he was leaving him. "I need you to tell me what happened here. We weren't expecting anything to come from this call."

The medics began to move Brett out of the house, passing George and the sergeant. Brett reached out towards him with his non-injured hand - and even that was a stretch, since it was still covered in blood, the wrist just wasn't broken - weakly grasping at George's arm. It wasn't enough to get the medics to stop.

"No, no, please," Brett begged as he was wheeled away. "Please don't leave."

George left his sergeant standing there and caught up to the medics. "Could you hold on, just one moment, please?" he asked them. Begrudgingly, they nodded. He took Brett's hand in his and looked down at him. "It's going to be alright, I promise." He turned back to his sergeant, who had come near, a frown on his face.

"Constable, I believe you have reports to give and paperwork to file," he said. "The boy's next of kin will be contacted, or a social worker if he doesn't have any."

George turned back to Brett and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Let me go talk to him, it's gonna be okay," he said. Brett nodded through his tears. George looked back at the medics, who also nodded, silently agreeing to wait. The task of letting go of Brett's hand to walk over to his sergeant was monumental, but George managed it. "Please, sir," he said. "The boy doesn't have anyone. His mum is dead, he has no one. He's hurting and scared. He's latched onto me. Please, sir, allow me to go with him to the hospital, at least until we find a foster. I can take care of all the reports and the paperwork later, once the boy is settled. He needs this."

His sergeant looked between him and Brett, before finally sighing with a nod. "Alright. But I expect complete reports and paperwork completed in timely manner. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," George replied. He handed his car keys over to his sergeant, then walked back over to Brett. "I'm comin' with you, it's alright. I'm not leavin' you." The medics started moving again, ready to get the stretcher into the ambulance. George stuck right by it, barely giving the medics enough room to work.

Soon enough, George had positioned himself just out of the way enough that he was no longer hindering the medics' access to the kid, but he could still be right there for him. George stayed right behind Brett, gently carding his fingers through the kid's hair. It seemed to help calm him, but maybe that was just the pain meds working. Either way, it definitely didn't hurt, and it made George feel better, like there was actually something he could do for the poor boy.

He stayed right by the gurney as it was rolled through the hospital, only leaving Brett's side when he was forced to - those times being while he was x-rayed and during his CT scan. George's heart broke once again as pictures were taken of Brett's injuries for documentation, but it was what had to be done. A truly impressive number of stitches later, and Brett was settled in cordoned off section of the ER, awaiting the results of his x-rays to determine whether or not he was going to need surgery to fix the damage. During the wait, all he could do was lay there and wait to come down from the high of the pain meds - the IV was out, so it was just a matter of time. Once all information was available, Brett would have to make his own decision about how he wanted to proceed, so he needed to be as lucid as possible. His father couldn't make decisions for him anymore, and there was no one else listed. The kid was just barely seventeen. He could technically choose emancipation, but in his injured state, that wouldn't be recommended. He needed a foster family, or a group home at the very least.

"Are you sure there's no one you want me to call?" George asked him again. He was sitting right next to the kid, barely a foot away from his bedside. "A mate, a teacher, someone?" he asked. There had to be someone in the boy's life who would want to know what was going on, who could help to take care of him.

"I don't know," Brett said, his voice low, almost in a whisper. He'd been so quiet ever since leaving his house, only speaking when directly spoken to, and even then, nodding or shaking his head when he could. When George had to leave his side for a brief moment, Brett's sharp intake of breath and panicked eyes were enough to get the message across that he was scared, that he didn't want George to leave. George didn't know why Brett had attached himself to him so much in such a short time, but he would do whatever he could to help him. If there was no one in the kid's life that cared about him, then George was going to change that himself, no matter what he had to do. "Maybe Mika?" Brett finally suggested. "Davina doesn't care, Dad was right. I'm so flaming stupid to think she loved me too. She was just using me. Maybe that really does make me a worthless slut." Brett turned away from George, shutting his eyes tight against the tears that began to stream down his face once again.

"Hey, hey," George gently said. He put his hand over Brett's and leaned in closer. "None of that is true." Well, technically George didn't know that, but he would be willing to bet on it. An abusive monster like Roger Aspinall was bound to make up lies to put his son down, and George was sure that that was all Brett's words were: lies told to him by his worthless excuse for a father. "No matter what your dad said, it wasn't true," he insisted.

"But it is," Brett replied, turning back towards George and opening his eyes, his pupils near pinpricks in a clear effect of the pain meds he was on. "She knew about what my dad did at school today, but she didn't even text me back. She doesn't care. I thought she loved me. Why else would she risk everything by taking me to bed?" Brett looked up at George, his eyes searching for an answer, but George didn't have one. He only had a sinking feeling in his stomach at what it seemed Brett was insinuating.

"What do you mean, 'risk everything'?" he asked. George was sure to keep his tone and expression neutral. High on pain meds or not, George didn't want to risk shutting Brett down.

"She was my dad's secretary, now my headmaster's secretary. I was fifteen and it was my first time. I thought that meant she loved me, but my dad was right," Brett said through his tears. "She was just using me."

George's heart broke even more. This poor boy had been manipulated by an older woman during a period of trauma in his life. Davina should have known better. What kind of person slept with their boss' fifteen year old kid, then continued to sleep with them for the next two years, even as an authority figure over them? George was going to remember her name and get further information on her. That sort of behavior wasn't only wrong, but illegal. By sleeping with Brett, she had committed statutory rape. There was no way around it. Just because she was the one who was older and not him didn't make it any less of a crime, no matter how other people saw it. There was all too often a double standard around the topic, but George was going to make sure that Davina paid for what she did.

"Then it's her loss," George said instead of his murderous thoughts towards the woman who had manipulated a child into sex. The truth wasn't what Brett needed. He needed comfort, someone to assure him that everything was going to be okay and he wasn't any of the horrible things that his father had called him. The truth could come later. The truth had to come later. "She's getting the short end of the stick if she doesn't care about you. What about Mika?" he asked, trying to turn them to more positive things. There would be ample time to deal with Brett's extensive trauma later. "Is she a mate I can call for you?"

Brett nodded. "I think so," he said. "I think, maybe, Mika is my only mate."

"No, she's not," George immediately replied. "I'm your mate, too." He squeezed Brett's hand and gave him a gentle smile. "But I could call her, if you'd like."

Brett nodded again, then rattled off a number. George was impressed that he had it memorized, but he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. The kid's phone hadn't been on him when they brought him into the hospital, so his memory was all he had.

George leaned back in his chair just a bit, giving Brett's hand one more squeeze before letting go and grabbing his own phone and typing in the numbers. He didn't know if it was still a rule that people weren't supposed to use phones in hospitals, but he wasn't about to ask.

"Hello?" a gentle voice on the other end of the line answered.

"Hello, am I speaking with Mika?" he asked.

"Yes, who is this?" She sounded hesitant, slightly nervous that the stranger on the other end knew her and she didn't know him. Good girl, good survival instincts.

"I'm Constable George Aquino. I'm here with your friend, Brett Aspinall. Don't worry, he's not in any legal trouble, but he is in the hospital, and he could really use a friend right now," he said. Brett had closed his eyes tight again. George could see another tear making its way down into his hairline.

A sharp intake of breath could be heard across the line. "Is he okay? What happened?"

"That's really for him to tell you, but he will be okay, I promise," George answered. It wasn't his decision whether or not Brett told Mika about the abuse. That was his story to tell, not George's.

"Thank you, sir, I'll be right down," she replied, hanging up after George told her which hospital.

George slid his phone back into his pocket and turned his full attention back to the boy in the hospital bed. Brett had opened his eyes again, but he was staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Mika's on her way," George said. He took a light hold of Brett's hand again. This time, Brett squeezed his hand first. "Is she someone that maybe you could stay with?"

Brett shook his head. "Her family is going through so much, I can't do that to them. I can't burden them."

Before George could respond that if Mika was a good friend, then she would never think of Brett as a burden, the doctor pulled the curtain back and stepped into the makeshift room.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"The pain meds are working," Brett muttered in response. George definitely noticed that he hadn't truly answered the question, but refrained from mentioning it. He'd given the doctor what she needed to know. The kid's emotional state wasn't as much of a concern to the hospital.

"That's good," the doctor replied with a smile. "You're very lucky, Brett. You won't be needing any surgery for your wrist. Remarkably, everything stayed in place just enough. We can cast your wrist, and then you can be discharged. Your CT scan came back negative of any brain damage. You won't have a concussion to worry about. Whoever you're being released to will get a full list of how to continue treating your injuries at home. I'll be back in a minute, and then we'll get a cast on your wrist. Your discharge papers will be drawn up too." The doctor gave a final smile, then left, pulling the curtain tight behind her.

Slowly, Brett turned towards George, the question obvious in his eyes before he even asked. "Who will I be released to?"

George sighed. He had an answer, but he knew it wasn't the one that Brett wanted to hear. What even did Brett want to hear? His entire world had been turned upside down, and although now it was for the better, it was still scary and confusing.

"A social worker, while we work on getting you a foster home," George finally replied. It wasn't worth it to beat around the bush.

"Why can't I go home with you?" Brett asked him, his eyes big and blue and full of a trust that George definitely didn't deserve. On some level, George understood it. He was the first person to help Brett out of this hell that he'd been living in for the past two years, someone who ended that ongoing trauma, who saved him. For all intents and purposes, George was Brett's hero. That certainly wasn't a title that George deserved for just doing his job, but he would accept whatever came with it. He would be whatever the poor boy needed. At its core, that was his job, to protect the innocent. Brett was virtually alone in the world. He was still desperately in need of someone to protect him. If he could, George would gladly be the one to do it.

"I'm sorry, I-I shouldn't have asked," Brett stammered. George had been taking way too long to respond. He opened his mouth to say something, but Brett kept going. "You don't even know me, you shouldn't even be here, I'm sorry."

"Hey, hey," George gently said, giving Brett's hand - which had begun to tremble - another squeeze. "You don't have anything to apologize for. Would you like to come home with me?" he asked. If that was truly what Brett wanted, then George would do everything in his power to make it happen. After everything that poor kid had been through, George would do anything. He had a spare bedroom that he could make into Brett's room, and he made enough money to be able to provide for the kid well enough. Roger Aspinall was very well off, so once he went to prison, his wealth would go to his son anyway, at least when Brett turned eighteen. George could provide for the boy until then.

"I just don't want to be alone," Brett muttered, not making eye contact. "You saved me from him. If you hadn't been there-," he broke off, his eyes suddenly welling with tears. "You don't know what he was going to do to me."

The way Brett said it implied that it was much more than just generic abuse. Roger had been planning something specific to do to his son, but had been interrupted by George showing up. The kid was terrified. Whatever it was, it was likely something else they could charge Roger with. The man had mentioned something about men lining up for Brett. Perhaps that hadn't been hyperbole. Maybe Roger really had been planning on pimping his son out.

"Brett, what was your father going to do?" he asked, as gently as he could. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but you will have to tell someone when it comes time to take your statement."

"Can it be you?" Brett asked, his voice small and quiet. He looked up at George with his big blue eyes, and all George wanted to was protect him.

"If you're ready, then yes, but you might want to wait until your arm is casted, so you can get it all over with at once."

As if on cue, the doctor came back in, ready to take Brett to get his wrist put in a cast.

"There's someone here to see you, as well," she said. "A girl about your age, says her name is Mika Grainger. I'm gonna take you for the cast, but you can see her as soon as it's done."

Brett nodded, then moved to stand up. He kept a blanket wrapped around his shoulders with his good hand clutching it together under his neck. It helped to hide the horrific bruising. At least there had been no signs of swelling. Some bad bruising was all the strangulation was going to leave Brett with, at least physically.

"Can I keep this with me?" Brett asked. George knew the doctor would say yes. How could anyone resist Brett's puppy eyes? "It's just so cold in here." He wrapped the blanket around himself even more. George couldn't blame him. Hospital gowns weren't exactly known for their ability to trap heat.

"Of course you can, love," the doctor replied with a smile. She motioned out of the curtained off section of the ER. "Right this way."

Brett looked back at George before slowly following the doctor.

"Don't worry," George said. "I'm still here." George went with Brett to get his wrist casted, but failed to convince him that neon green was the color to pick. Brett went with black instead.

Wrist casted, gashes stitched and wrapped and bandaged, and pain meds administered, Brett was allowed to change back into regular clothes - George had bought him a tee shirt and sweatpants from the small shop on the ground floor, since the clothes he came in were so covered in blood. Brett and George walked over to the nurses' station soon after, waiting on the discharge papers. George was going to have to convince them to release Brett into his custody. He hadn't bothered to call a social worker or a foster. Brett wanted to stay with him, so George was going to do everything he could to make that happen.

A young girl about Brett's age came quickly up to them, concern heavy in her eyes, a blue that almost matched Brett's.

"Brett," she called out like a sigh of relief. Her eyes flitted to his cast and the bandages wrapped around his arms, then back up to the horrific bruising around his throat and the small bandage covering the gash on his forehead. That one wasn't likely to scar, but the ones on his arms definitely would. Brett would be left with the permanent reminder of what his father had done to him. "What happened? Are you alright? Oh my goodness," she said. Before giving Brett a chance to reply, she wrapped him in a gentle hug. Brett melted around her, the pain killers still clearly in effect enough to not cause his ribs pain at the movement.

George averted his gaze and turned back to the nurses' station. Brett and Mika deserved some privacy. George tried to focus on the nurse, who was typing away at the computer as she drew up Brett's discharge forms, but he couldn't help but overhear Brett's conversation.

"What happened?" Mika asked again. He heard a soft sigh come from Brett.

"It was my dad," he admitted in a low voice. "I don't want to talk about it, not yet, at least. But it was my dad. He's been doing this for over two years now, but it's never been this bad before. He's been arrested, this time."

"Oh, Brett, I'm so sorry." George heard the rustling of clothes, and could see Mika hugging Brett again out of the corner of his eye. "What happens now? Do you need somewhere to go? I can get a place made up for you at mine."

"No, no, I can't ask you to do that," Brett replied. "You've got so much going on with your mum and Mr. Clarkson and Miss Dickey."

"Where else are you gonna go?"

"He's gonna come home with me," George said, turning away from the nurses' station and back to the teenagers. "If that's what Brett wants, then he can stay with me as long as he wants."

Brett looked up at him with disbelief, as if he couldn't possibly believe that George would do that for him. "I can't ask you to do that either," Brett said, shaking his head. His eyes betrayed him. They were longing, pleading with George to protect him and stay with him.

"Well you don't have to ask. I didn't bother to call a social worker, so now it's your only option," George replied with a smile, lightly resting his hand on Brett's shoulder. He turned his attention to the girl. "You must be Mika. I'm Constable Aquino, but you can just call me George."

"It's nice to meet you," Mika replied. "Thank you for saving Brett, and for taking care of him. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to him." She averted her gaze and looked away, but not in time to keep George from seeing the emotion in her eyes - the care she felt towards Brett.

"Now I've got most of these papers signed, since Brett is in my care right now. All he has to do is sign the rest of them, and then we can go," George said with a smile. "I was gonna take him for some pizza before bringing him back to the station so we can take his statement. Would you like to join us? I don't think Brett would mind having some company other than me for a while."

"Of course!" Mika happily answered. George didn't fail to see the way that Brett smiled at her.

Once the papers were signed, and they were off hospital property, the three of them endured one of the most interesting cab rides of their lives. The cabbie looked at them with the question clear in his eyes, but he refrained from asking why a policeman in full uniform, a schoolgirl, and a very injured teenage boy were all getting into the cab together. More than anything, George was glad that the cabbie didn't stare at Brett or ask about his injuries. It would have been impossible for the man not to have see them.

After the cab ride, they weren't so lucky. Everyone on the street stared as they walked into the pizza place, and everyone in the pizza place stared as they walked to a table. Brett's face flushed with shame. He looked down and away from everyone, but George just glared at those who dared to stare. As his head swiveled around, giving everyone who looked at the kid an evil eye, George noticed that Mika was doing the same thing. She even wrapped an arm protectively around Brett's shoulders. He leaned into the touch for a moment, before wincing and straightening back up. His pain meds were wearing off.

"How are you feeling? Do you need another dose?" George quietly asked him. He didn't want people to overhear.

"No, I'll be fine," Brett muttered. He still didn't look at either George or Mika.

"Are you sure?" Mika asked him. "Because if you need something for the pain..." she trailed off as a waitress came up to them, the woman's eyes immediately falling on Brett as she set down three glasses of water.

George spoke up before the woman could say anything about him. "Can we get a large pepperoni pizza, please?" he asked. The woman pulled her eyes away from Brett and turned to George.

"Of course," she answered with a smile, then walked away.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," George reminded Brett. The kid's face was flushed with shame once again. "What happened wasn't your fault. You survived something horrific. You don't have to be ashamed of that."

"But I let it happen for two flaming years," Brett said. He smiled sardonically and shook his head, but George could see the shine in his blue eyes from holding back tears. "I was too scared to fight back or tell someone, and too ashamed of how weak it made me that I couldn't let anyone know."

"That's not your fault either," Mika said. "No one who matters is going to think any differently of you. I don't think differently of you. Besides, you were there for me when I was gettin' bullied. Don't you know I would always be there for you?" She gave him a gentle smile, which, after finally looking at her, Brett returned.

"So how did the two of you meet?" George asked, taking a sip of his water. The point of going out for pizza was to make Brett smile and laugh a bit. He needed to do that.

"French class?" Brett asked, looking to Mika for confirmation. She nodded.

"Brett's, like, fluent in it," she said with her bright smile. "He's supposed to tutor me, but we haven't quite gotten around to it." She cringed, then shook her head. "But that's a story for another time."

"I'm not fluent, and I will tutor you, I promise," Brett insisted. "Without Leigh-Ann this time."

"She got excluded anyway, so it's not as if she would need the lessons anymore." Mika smiled and shook her head with a slight laugh. "But you definitely are fluent."

"I'm not fluent," Brett repeated, blushing. At least this time he was smiling.

George shook his head at their antics. "So French class is where you first met for the first time?" he confirmed.

"Yeah, Brett's new to Waterloo this year. He transferred from King's College," Mika answered.

"My dad's supposed to be funding the school," Brett said with a slight grimace. "I don't know what happens now that he's been arrested." He looked down and away, once again self conscious.

Any awkwardness that was about to spring up was quickly put to rest by the arrival of their pizza. They quickly dug in, devouring the pizza and keeping the topics as light hearted as possible. George talked about his strangest arrests and other bizarre moments on the job, and succeeded in making both of the kids laugh as much as possible - though he did feel bad when he made Brett laugh, since it hurt his ribs, despite his insistence that he was fine and he didn't need another dose of pain meds yet.

Mika was a beacon of sunlight. Every time Brett started to look the least bit uncomfortable, she would smile at him and bump his shoulder, and he would smile again too. Despite not having known either Brett or Mika for longer than a few hours, George could already see how much they both cared about each other, and definitely as more than friends. But that wasn't any of his business. Brett was going to have to fully process what happened with Davina before he could move on with Mika. It would be best for them to start out as good friends anyway, just to build that solid relationship between them before taking it a step further.

Stomach's full and pizza completely devoured, it was time for George to take Brett to the station to give his statement. He hated to make the kid do that, relive it all, but it had to happen if Roger was going to successfully get put away.

At a lull in the conversation, George sighed, and said what had to be said. "Brett, I have to take you to the station," he told him, as gently as he could.

"I need to be gettin' home anyway," Mika added. "I barely explained to my mum what was doin' on as I ran out the door to get a cab. But she'll be glad to know that you're okay." Brett nodded, but didn't say anything. "Will I see you at school tomorrow?" she asked.

Brett looked to George, as if asking him whether or not he would be at school the next day.

"That's up to you," George said. "It's perfectly understandable if you want to take some time off, but if you want to go, I can take you. I don't work until the late afternoon."

Brett turned back to Mika. "Maybe," he said, but it came out more as a question. "I'm not sure, but I'll try to let you know."

"Okay," Mika replied with a gentle smile. "You do whatever you need to do. If you need me to make up some crazy story and cover for you, I will." She grinned wide, and stood up from her place at the booth. George reached into his pocket and took out cash for her cab fare. It wouldn't be fair to make her pay for the cab when she hadn't been planning on going out that night. Mika turned to him. "Thank you so much for the pizza, and for taking care of Brett. It means a lot to me, really," she said.

"It's not a problem, love," George replied. "I'm glad I can help. Here's money for the cab ride home. Please text Brett when you get home safely. He'll get the message tonight when he gets his phone," he said.

Mika smiled again and shook her head good-naturedly. "Thank you, sir," she said, accepting the money. "And I will." She gave one more smile to Brett, then walked away.

George turned back to Brett. "I like her," he said with a grin. "You have good taste, kid." Brett blushed again, but smiled, and didn't deny that he fancied her. George put the bill for the pizza on the table for the waitress to pick up. "We should get goin', get this done," he said.

"You're right," Brett muttered, but he made no move to stand up.

"It's gonna be alright," George insisted. "You only have to tell me. I will have to record it, but you don't have to tell anyone else face to face. I'm gonna be right there with you the whole time, and we can take as many breaks as you want, I promise." George ducked his head to catch the kid's gaze. Finally, Brett looked back up at him, and nodded.

When George stood, so did Brett. The cab ride to the station was tense, Brett's nerves were palpable. He was trembling just enough for George to notice, but he refrained from saying anything about it. George tried to appear as relaxed as possible, hoping that somehow it would help Brett.

The cab eventually stopped in front of the station. As George was paying the cabbie, Brett opened the door and let out an audible whimper as he got out of the car. George rushed to him as quickly as he could.

"You need another dose, don't you?" he gently asked him.

"I'm fine," the kid replied, but George could hear the strain in his voice as he tried to hide the pain.

"They gave you the meds for a reason," George said, motioning to the small bag he carried which held what the hospital had given him. "It's okay to need them. It might make it easier to give your statement if you're not in pain the whole time."

After a moment of consideration, Brett nodded. "Alright, I'll take something," he finally said.

"Good," George said with a smile. "I'll grab you some water." He led them both into the station and into an interview room, where he made sure Brett was comfortable. "I'll get the water, and I need to speak with my sergeant, but I'll be right back, I promise," he said. George waited for Brett to nod in acknowledgement before leaving Brett alone in the room. The last time that George had strayed too far from Brett, the kid had freaked out. Of course, that had been while the kid had been in deep pain and trauma. Still, George was going to be as quick as he could.

Speaking with his sergeant needed to be first. He walked right up to the man's desk and waited to be acknowledged before speaking.

"Constable Aquino, how's the boy?" his sergeant asked. It sounded more polite than a real question, but George was okay with that. He needed to get back to the boy in question.

"About as good as you would expect. Two broken ribs, a broken wrist, and a couple dozen stitches, not to mention the severe bruising due to strangulation. But I've got him in an interview room to give his statement," he said. "His dad in lockup?"

"Yes, as of right now, Mr. Aspinall is in jail, but he's an obscenely wealthy man. He'll get out on bail in the morning," his sergeant answered. "Has the boy got a social worker yet?"

"He'll actually be stayin' with me, sir," George replied. He kept his voice strong, despite his fear that for some reason his sergeant would vehemently oppose. "It's what he wanted, and I think it's safest. Since his dad will be out soon, the kid could be in danger. I think it's best that he stays with me. I can protect him much better than a social worker or a foster can." It was the truth, but it wasn't a truth that George had shared with Brett yet. Although, the kid was smart. He could've already figured it out.

His sergeant sighed. "I guess you've got a point there," he said. George relaxed immediately. "Get the boy's statement, then you can take the rest of the night off."

"Thank you, sir," George responded. He got the water for Brett, and went back into the interview room, giving the door a perfunctory knock before stepping in. "Here ya go," he said, setting the bottle on the table. He pulled out Brett's meds, and waited for the kid to take them. Once that was accomplished, George settled down on the opposite side of the table. "Are you ready?"

After a moment, Brett nodded, took a deep breath, and dove right in. He started at the beginning, when his mum died. Brett detailed how he began to act out by sleeping with Davina and provoking his father, and how the latter led to the abuse. Even after Brett stopped provoking him, the abuse continued, and grew worse and worse. He talked about their fight that finally led to Brett figuring out what his father truly did for a living.

"He does what?" George asked, interrupting Brett.

"He works in the porn industry, something illegal there," Brett said. "He, uh, he threatened to force me into it, if I ever told anyone." Brett's eyes filled up with tears, and he didn't make eye contact. "He said he was gonna bring his friends over tonight to- to do things, to me, and film it." Brett stopped. He took another breath and closed his eyes.

George's heart was racing and his blood was on fire. Roger deserved to die for his crimes. If it had been up to George, he would.

"Do you wanna take a break?" George gently asked him, letting none of his fury enter his words.

"No, no, it's fine, I can do this," Brett insisted. He wiped his tears away and took another breath. Brett continued on, detailing what had happened at school that day, and how it led to that afternoon. He was shaking as he explained how his father dragged him downstairs and threw the plate at him, strangled him, beat him, and stomped on his wrist, breaking the bone. He closed his eyes again as he explained how he had laid there in agony, in too much pain to move, but terrified of the consequences of not moving.

"That was when the doorbell rang," he said. Brett took another breath, and opened his eyes. "Then he threw me in the closet, and then you were there. You saved me. Thank you," he said, finishing almost in a whisper.

"You don't need to thank me," was all George was able to say. After hearing everything that Brett had been subjected two for the prior two years, it took everything in George not to break down and sob. Brett had never done anything to deserve his treatment. He was a sweet kid, and he deserved a father who loved him. "I just wish I could've saved you a long time ago," he finally said, the emotion thick in his own voice.

"You're saving me now, and now, that's all that matters," Brett said. His face flushed again, and he looked away.

"How about I take you back to your place to grab some things, then I take you over to mine?" he asked. "Once you know exactly what you wanna do, we can figure the rest out."

"Okay," Brett replied.

This time, when Brett stood up, he didn't wince. His voice was clearly sore from both the strangling and the talking for two hours about the abuse he'd undergone, but the pain meds were clearly working the way they were supposed to.

After informing his sergeant that Brett's statement had officially been given - and quietly saying that they needed to look into Davina Shackleton and address possible statutory rape charges against her - George brought Brett out to his car, and followed the kid's directions back to his house.

The police cars were all gone, but Brett still seemed hesitant to leave the safety of George's car.

"I'll come with you. It's alright. Your father's in jail for the night, he won't be in there," George said.

Brett's eyes widened. "What do you mean 'for the night'? He's getting out?" he asked, panic clear in his voice.

"It's alright, I promise, you're gonna be okay," George quickly said. "You don't have any reason to be scared. I'll talk to you all about what's gonna happen with your father and court stuff and legal stuff and all of that once we get back to my place. For now, let's just get some things packed for you. Is that alright?" After a moment, Brett nodded, but there was still fear in his eyes. "It's alright, I'm coming with you."

Once they got inside, Brett froze, his eyes immediately drawn to the blood stain on the floor. It was his blood. George gently put his arm around the kid's thin shoulders and steered him towards the stairs.

"You're alright," he said, his voice low and calming.

Ten minutes later, Brett had clothes and other necessities packed for the next several days, and they were on their way to George's place. Just as she had promised, Mika had indeed texted Brett that she had gotten home safely.

Ten minutes after that, and they were safe and sound at George's house. It was significantly smaller than Brett's, but George liked it well enough. It had an extra room with a bed that would become Brett's, and that was all it really needed. Despite his upbringing, Brett didn't seem like the type to scoff at anything that was less than five stars.

"Have you thought at all about school tomorrow?" George asked him once Brett had finished putting his things in the spare room - in his room, as George was already thinking of it.

"I don't know," Brett muttered in reply. He sat down on the couch next to George, closer to him than most teenagers would. George didn't mind. "They're all gonna ask questions, and I don't know how to answer them. And the headmaster is gonna hate me even more than he already does."

"Why would he hate you?" George asked, leaning back on the couch. He'd shed his uniform for comfortable clothes, and wanted to present an air of relaxation in hopes that Brett would relax too.

"If my dad's in prison, there's no new funding for the school. That's because of me. It's my fault," Brett answered. He remained mostly curled in on himself. His spine was straight, but his knees were pulled up, and his casted wrist was resting on top of them.

"The school will find other funding, and it's not on you," George countered. "None of this is your fault, you hear me? None of it. The way I see it, you've a couple of options." He waited to continue until Brett looked over at him. "You could wait until you're completely healed, then either go back to Waterloo or transfer to a different school, and have to repeat the year for missing so much. Or, you could go back this week, maybe tomorrow, maybe later, not have to repeat the year, and tell every single person you talk to a different story behind what happened. You could have a lot of fun coming up with outlandish stories about saving old ladies from muggers and fighting a crocodile and whatever crazy things you want." That brought a smile out of Brett, and even a small laugh. "You don't have to tell anyone what really happened. People are going to say things, that's unfortunately true, but I know a girl who is going to have your back no matter what, and she would be pretty disappointed if you switched schools. I'm not telling you that you have to go back tomorrow, but I do think going back sooner rather than later is the right thing."

"I guess you're right," Brett finally said. He let his head fall back against the couch, and George counted that as a win. "I'll do it, I'll go back tomorrow and just get it over with," he said.

"Are you sure?" George confirmed. "I'm not gonna make you do something that you don't wanna do."

"No, I should just do it." Brett nodded again, gaining confidence. "Maybe I'll tell people I got hurt stopping the zombie apocalypse or catching the next Jack the Ripper," he added with a smile.

"That's the spirit," George said with a laugh, lightly punching Brett on the shoulder. A few moments later, Brett's smile fell once again.

"What is gonna happen to my dad?" he asked. "Is he really only gonna be in jail for one night?"

George sighed. "Your father is pretty rich. He can afford a good attorney and he's definitely going to get out on bail, since all we have on him right now in child abuse. More charges are going to be filed once we look into his business, but until we can make those stick, he'll be out on bond."

Brett was beginning to shake. His eyes filled up with tears of terror.

"Then he's gonna find me," Brett said, his voice wavering. "He's gonna find me, and he's gonna kill me."

"I won't let that happen," George asserted. "I am going to protect you, I'll keep you safe. I'll do whatever I need to to make sure that he never touches you again. I swear to you, Brett. I promise I will protect you." He'd never been more sure of anything in his life. He needed to protect the kid. That was the only thing he needed to do. Brett looked over at him, a few tears making their way down his face, the pain meds once again lowering his defenses. "You're in my care now, and I take that job very seriously. I am going to look after you, I promise. I'm not gonna let him hurt you."

"Can you keep him from sending his friends after me?" he asked, his voice breaking as more tears fell. George remembered what Brett had said earlier about his father's threats to have him sexually assaulted, and his heart broke once again.

"I'll protect you from them too," he insisted. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, I swear." He looked right into Brett's eyes, and pleaded with him to understand how serious he was. Protecting the kid was the only thing that mattered anymore. Above anything and everything else, he would protect Brett. He would protect him like he were his own son.

"I'm scared," Brett admitted. He closed his eyes and leaned closer to George. Without the kid even having to ask, George gently wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, safe and secure.

"I know," George said. "But it's gonna be alright. I'm not gonna leave you. I'm never gonna leave you." He kept his arms wrapped tight around Brett, holding the boy as he cried in his arms. One arm was around the kid's back and shoulders, and the other made its way up to his kid, gently carding fingers through his hair. "It's gonna be alright," he repeated.

George didn't pay attention to the time. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the kid in his arms. George didn't know how long Brett cried, but eventually, he was silent, and his breathing was steady and even. He'd fallen asleep. His pain and exhaustion and the trauma from the day had worn him out enough to knock him out. That was okay. As carefully as he could, George maneuvered them both into a more comfortable position. He couldn't let the kid sleep in a position that would cause his ribs extra pain in the morning. But soon enough, George was lying down, with Brett more or less laying on top of him, sound asleep.

That was fine. George would let Brett sleep as long as he wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> Almost like I left this ending open... so I could write more... whump and fluff... if I so chose... interesting


End file.
